by Angela Arney
Leaves Before the Storm
ANGELA ARNEY
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Easter 1939
‘You’re not marrying Henry for his money are you?’ Arthur wheeled himself into the bedroom and looked at his sister who was brushing her hair. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of you selling yourself.’
Megan leaned over and grabbed at Arthur’s hand. ‘I’m marrying him for me. I want to be Mrs Henry Lockwood and then perhaps one day I shall be Lady Lockwood of Folly House if Henry is made President of the Royal College of Physicians.’
Arthur sighed. ‘Well, I hope you get what you want, and there are no nasty surprises along the way.’
Megan laughed. ‘Stop worrying.’ Leaping from the bed she spun Arthur’s wheelchair around and pushed him towards the door. ‘Now go! Lady Lavinia is coming to help me get dressed, and you’ve got to get yourself ready to escort me down the aisle.’
Once Arthur had gone Megan sat back down on the bed. The wedding dress hung in the wardrobe, a mass of cream silk and seed pearls. She worried. What really happened between a man and a woman in bed? She had only the haziest of notions, picked up from romantic novels and school gossip. In novels the heroines always sank blissfully into their lover’s arms at the end of the book, and at school the only book that gave any information on sex concentrated entirely on rabbits.
Megan had tried, but found equating Henry to a rabbit was too difficult so had given up. Now, on her wedding day she was counting on Henry knowing about such things and teaching her. After all he was ten years older than she was, and a doctor. He ought to know. Besides, she had other things to worry about. The wedding. Would everything go smoothly?
Crossing her fingers she prayed that her father, the Reverend Marcus Elliott, wouldn’t drink too much. He was inclined to over-imbibe, especially when he was depressed, and these days old age and being a widower seemed to depress him. Sometimes when he took Sunday service he was definitely the worse for drink, but his parishioners loved him and forgave him when his sermons became long, maudlin and muddled. Although after last week’s sermon Lady Lavinia had taken him aside and given him a stern lecture on the perils of the demon drink.
Suitably chastened, Marcus Elliott had promised not to overindulge and Lady Lavinia departed, hoping that her reprimand would at least keep him sober for the forthcoming wedding of his daughter Megan, and her nephew Henry.
Today both Megan and Arthur wanted him in a cheerful frame of mind. All the bottles had been hidden, and Arthur had temporarily nobbled the wireless. Every day the news was about the deepening crisis in Europe and the possibility of war with Hitler’s Germany. Marcus had served in the trenches in the 1914–1918 world war and was distraught at the thought of another war. Today Arthur tried to make sure he didn’t hear anything.
Lady Lavinia arrived at the rectory, a vision in lavender silk, carrying her hat in an enormous hatbox. Amy, the young maid at the rectory, showed her upstairs. ‘I can’t risk damaging the ostrich feathers,’ Lady Lavinia said, putting the hatbox down carefully. ‘I’ve had them imported especially from South Africa, and I do want them to look their best in church.’
‘I’m sure they will look lovely,’ said Megan, who had seen the feathers. They were large and a violent purple colour. On most people they would look ghastly but Megan was sure that Lavinia would carry them off with her usual aplomb.
Amy bobbed a curtsy at Lady Lavinia and Megan. ‘Can I go now to Folly House, miss? I’ve got to help in the kitchen.’
‘Yes, off you go,’ said Lavinia, answering for Megan. She turned back and lifted down the wedding dress. ‘Right,’ she said briskly, ‘let’s start buttoning you up. There must be a hundred pearl buttons here at the very least.’
Megan slipped her arms into the tight leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and turned around. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘It’s no bother, my child,’ said Lavinia with a curiously tender note in her voice. ‘Nothing is any bother for a bride on her wedding day. Everything should be perfect.’ She sighed. ‘I do hope that you and Henry will have a long and happy marriage, and that it won’t be spoiled by the war.’
‘I refuse to think about war,’ said Megan stubbornly. ‘I refuse to let hateful politicians spoil everything. Germany and the rest of Europe are far away. Nothing that happens there can affect what happens here in the New Forest, and anyway, there may not be a war.’ She turned to face Lavinia who was regarding her with a grave expression. ‘Well, it can’t affect us can it? Not here. There won’t be fighting here.’
She didn’t want to think about it because she had waited for this day for years. She had made up her mind to marry Henry years before he had even noticed her, Henry had inherited Folly House and it had always been Megan’s overriding ambition to be the mistress of Folly House, therefore she had to marry Henry. Not Gerald, his younger brother, who attracted her, but who would never have the house.
After Henry had inherited the house Gerald, his younger brother, also got his inheritance, a large sum of money. He was ambitious, and immediately left university and moved up to the Midlands, near Sheffield, bought a factory and a steelworks and now had even more money.
‘He’s making guns,’ said Lavinia in a disapproving tone of voice.
Gerald still visited Folly House and pursued Megan whenever he came. She was glad he was no longer around all the time, as despite the fact that she was sure she loved Henry, she still felt an undeniable attraction to Gerald and knew he felt the same about her. He kissed her whenever he got a chance, and his kisses were quite different from those of Henry. Henry’s were warm and comfortable whereas Gerald’s were rough and demanding and his hands wrought havoc with her body. So she’d made certain that she was never alone with him on his last few visits, as the feelings he aroused in her were quite alarming and she wasn’t sure whether she was scared of Gerald or herself.
Even thinking about him frightened her and today, of all days, she didn’t want to think of him. Although she couldn’t avoid him as he was to be best man at the wedding. But at the end of the day she would be married and would move from the vicarage to Folly House to join Henry. In preparation Lavinia had moved out into the dower house at the main gate, where Gerald was staying temporarily. Soon Megan would truly be mistress of Folly House.
It was planned that Gerald would return to Sheffield the following day, then it would just be herself and Henry at Folly House. They were not having a honeymoon, just a few days in Devon as Henry was heavily involved in the Civil Defence Committee for London; as a surgeon he had been co-opted to organize plans for mass casualties in the event of bombing. But Megan would not be entirely alone in the house when Henry was in London. Tilly the housemaid would attend to her needs and would sleep in the attic room on the far side of the house near the stables. And in the older, semi-detached part of the house, which had originally been the nurse’s cottage, lived George Jones, the gardener and handyman, Bertha Jones his wife who was the cook and housekeeper, and Dottie Jones their daughter. Dottie was sixpence in the shilling, as they sa
id in the village, but at sixteen years old was expected to earn her keep although she didn’t get paid. She just got board and lodging with her parents. Their accommodation was rather basic, but the Jones family were more than happy with their lot.
‘Well, my dear, I certainly hope nothing happens.’ Lavinia carefully adjusted the veil with its long train. ‘As you say, we are a long way from Europe, but in the last war we were all touched by it. Even me,’ she added softly.
Megan was startled. She’d been lost in her reverie and had almost forgotten that Lavinia was there. The war! Of course Lavinia had been affected. Sir Richard had been blown up and apparently that was the reason they’d never had children. ‘He wasn’t a proper man any more,’ Bertha had told Megan. Now she felt guilty. She’d forgotten that other people’s dreams had been dashed to smithereens.
But she had waited for this day for so long. Before Henry had even noticed her, when he and Gerald came as orphaned boys to live at Folly House with their widowed Aunt Lavinia, after their mother and father both died in a car accident in Italy.
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ she said, and meant it.
Lavinia sighed. ‘Water under the bridge, my dear. I pray nothing happens to you and Henry.’ She stepped back. ‘There, that’s you finished. Just be careful coming down stairs. I’ve asked Jim the stable lad to help you into the carriage, you mustn’t let your dress get near the wheels, and I do hope Thunder is on his best behaviour.’ Thunder was the big dun-coloured shire horse who was pulling the bridal carriage, a converted dray, to the church. She hesitated, then leaned forward and planted a lavender-perfumed kiss on Megan’s cheek. ‘I think you’ll make a very good Lockwood.’
‘Thank you.’ Megan smiled shyly. It seemed a lifetime ago since Henry had proposed. Of course, he hadn’t known that he was merely setting in motion the plans Megan had made years before. He thought it was all his own idea.
In 1938, when Megan was nineteen years old, and Henry, now a qualified surgeon, working mainly in London, Lavinia thought that he should marry so that Folly House could have a mistress. She was anxious that Folly House should stay within the family, and thought that Megan, Henry’s second cousin would be an ideal candidate. Marcus was also anxious to get Megan off his hands; he couldn’t afford to have her presented at Court, and anyway Megan had let it be known in no uncertain manner that she was not interested in being introduced to Society. She loved the country, riding ponies, swimming in the sea, and appeared to have no ambition. Marcus and Lavinia thought she lacked a purpose in life, little knowing that her one purpose was to marry Henry.
They were slightly surprised when she fell in with their plans and even more surprised when Henry also was quite amenable when they suggested Megan. He liked his dark-haired cousin. She was beautiful, and appeared easy-going, which suited Henry. He didn’t want a troublesome wife, just someone who would be content to live in Folly House while he worked in London and shared a house with Adam Myers, a friend since school days.
Adam was an actor of some repute, and lived a hedonistic lifestyle. Henry was happy to dip in and out of Adam’s world of parties, alcohol and women, without actually belonging to it, but was surprised when Adam objected to his marrying, especially Megan, whom he considered a country bumpkin.
‘Women always spoil things,’ said Adam. ‘We’re happy as we are. Footloose and fancy free. You can have your pick of any woman in London. You don’t need a permanent woman in the picture.’
‘You’re an actor. It’s different for me. I’m a doctor and I need a wife for Folly House. I’ve got to be more respectable.’
‘Respectable! What a dull word,’ Adam grumbled. ‘But I suppose if you’re determined I’ll have to put up with her.’
‘I am determined,’ said Henry, surprised at Adam’s vehemence. ‘But you’ll only have to put up with her when you come down to Folly House. Here in London everything will be more or less the same. You can still have your string of women, but after my marriage I’ll remain celibate, in London anyway.’
‘Oh my God!’ Adam exclaimed. ‘I don’t know whether I’ll be able to bear it. I’ll be living with a saint.’
But Henry knew he would bear it. Friends since prep school, they were too close to let anything come between them, not even a wife.
And in 1938, as Henry slipped the diamond and emerald engagement ring on her finger and gave her a chaste kiss, Megan decided that she would fall in love with him. Wives should love their husbands. They did in romantic novels. Henry was tall, blond, good-looking, charming and rich, and master of Folly House. What was there not to love? Life stretched out before her just as she’d always wanted. Her dream was complete.
CHAPTER TWO
Easter 1939 – The Wedding
Megan insisted that all the permanent staff from the house and gardens should be invited to the wedding. This included the Jones family, even though Bertha was doing most of the cooking for the wedding breakfast at Folly House. Temporary staff were hired in from the village to help Bertha, and no one refused the request to help. The villagers were only too glad to have the chance of peeping inside Folly House at the village wedding of the year.
On the morning of the wedding the lane to the squat flint stone Norman church of St Nicholas on the edge of East End, was busy. The day dawned misty with heavy dew, the promise of a fine day to come. The hedgerows sparkled, laced with diamond-draped cobwebs glittering in the sun as it pierced through the mist. Translucent green leaves were a reminder that the year was exploding with fresh life, and newborn lambs in the fields skittered with the sheer excitement of being alive while their mothers stolidly munched at the fresh grass and hedge sparrows competed noisily in the hedgerows.
The rumble of steel-rimmed wooden wheels and the clip-clop of old Ned’s hoofs along the flinty lane heralded the arrival of the Jones family on their way towards the church.
‘Look at the way they’ve tied up them pony and traps,’ grumbled Bertha, feeling bad-tempered and flustered because of the rush to get ready. ‘The way them are all jammed up on them banks will ruin the blackberries for the autumn. There’ll be none worth picking after this.’
George was more patient than his wife. ‘They’ve got to be parked up there, dear. In a minute the big dray with the bride in it will be coming along, and it’s going to have a terrible squeeze to get past.’
‘Do you think Megan will be late?’ asked Dottie.
‘Don’t be so familiar,’ said Bertha sharply. ‘You must call her Mrs Lockwood after today.’
‘But she said I could call her—’
‘Never mind what she said. I’m telling you. You mind your place. You’re a servant girl, for what use you are. And don’t you dare sing the hymns too loud when we’re in church.’ Bertha turned to her husband. ‘We should never have brought her. She’ll make an exhibition of us.’
‘She was invited,’ replied George, the stubborn note creeping into his voice as it always did when Dottie was mentioned. ‘She has a right to come. And if she do sing the hymns too loud, well, at least she sings them in tune, which is more than can be said for some folk.’ He glanced pointedly at Bertha, whose vocal talents were renowned for being far from musical.
Bertha sniffed bad-temperedly. ‘Well, she’s got to mind her place. She’d get the sack anywhere else. If it weren’t for us she’d have no job at all.’
‘If it weren’t for us,’ said George quietly, ‘she wouldn’t be here at all.’
Bertha didn’t reply, merely rammed Dottie’s straw hat down straighter on her head, but George knew she felt guilty.
When they arrived at the back of the church the sun was becoming higher in the sky and it was beginning to be hot. Pigeons crooned softly, ‘croo, croo,’ from the inky darkness of the ancient yews bowing low over the leaning tombstones. Old Ned was tethered to a ring outside the gate, well away from the poisonous yews and clumps of ragwort. A nosebag was put on his head and he was left munching happily. George offered his arm to his bad-tempered wife
and, with Dottie following, the family walked back to the main door of the church.
‘You’re wrong about her getting the sack,’ George said, continuing their previous conversation. ‘Lady Lavinia has never complained about her, and neither will the new Mrs Lockwood. They’re both very fond of Dottie.’
‘They haven’t got her for a daughter,’ was Bertha’s bitter reply.
George sighed. He knew only too well how disappointed Bertha had been when Dottie was born. They’d waited so many years for a child, their joy turning to sorrow when a small sickly baby was born and diagnosed as a mongol child. He knew too, although Bertha had never voiced her thoughts, that she hoped the feeble baby would die young, as most such children did. But Dottie did not. She survived against all odds, and was now growing into womanhood. Only her mind remained that of an innocent child. George was more philosophical than Bertha. ‘There’s normal and normal,’ he always said. ‘It takes all sorts to make the world, and I love her. She’s made in God’s image the same as you and me, and we’ve got to thank God for what we’ve got.’
But Bertha could never find it in her heart to thank God. In fact she doubted there was a god. As far as she was concerned Dottie was a burden and a shame.
In church Henry was in his place in front of the altar with his best man, Gerald. Lady Lavinia was there in the Lockwood pew, resplendent in lavender silk, her large hat covered in deep-purple ostrich feathers.
Dottie, entranced by the sight of the waving feathers, breathed loudly. ‘Cor! Don’t she look lovely.’
‘Be quiet,’ snapped Bertha. ‘The whole village is here, they don’t want to hear you.’
Nervous at the sight of the crowded church, Dottie slipped her hand into her father’s. ‘There’s such a lot of people,’ she whispered.
‘That’s because it’s Mr Henry’s and Miss Megan’s wedding, my love,’ said George tenderly, adjusting the ribbon on her hat so that it hung straight down her back. ‘Now be a good girl and try not to annoy your ma. Don’t sing the hymns too loud, will you.’